


World Enough, and Time

by Likelightinglass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Discussions of death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mortality, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Soulmates, but don't worry it doesn't stick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21516688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likelightinglass/pseuds/Likelightinglass
Summary: Soulmate clocks start ticking when you first lock eyes, and count down until your time with them is over. Harry’s starts ticking on September 1st, 1991. He has only six years, eight months, and one day.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 58
Kudos: 799





	World Enough, and Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [Vũ trụ, Thời gian, và Chúng ta by Likelightinglass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26455198) by [lamlinh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamlinh/pseuds/lamlinh)

> A soulmate marks fic with a bit of a morbid twist. My first solo attempt at something angsty, so obviously it has to have a happy ending. Enjoy!

When Harry Potter first locked eyes with Professor Snape across the Great Hall on his very first day at Hogwarts, the immediate burning itch at the scar on his forehead had distracted him from the warm tingle on his left wrist. In fact, it wasn’t until that evening, as he was turning in his new bed, delighted at the thought of the coming months and months spent in the magical castle, that he noticed the numbers at all.

_06:08:01_

He traced the thumb of his right hand over the dull, amber glow of the lines etched into his skin. He couldn’t feel a difference in the skin, and it didn’t hurt at all. Well, that’s odd, Harry thought to himself. He wasn’t the most observant person in the world, but he was sure he would have noticed something like this, so he was certain these strange new markings were a very recent addition to the light brown skin of his arm.

When he awoke the next morning, the numbers were still there. Same size, same color. But the last digits read 00, and Harry was sure they were 01 last night. He vowed to ask someone about them as soon as he could, but between navigating the chaos of the castle and finding his footing to his new, magical classes, he hadn’t had the chance until he and Ron had a moment alone in the Gryffindor common room just before supper.

Harry had sneaked glances at other students wrists throughout the day, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, though a couple students had bracelets on, so it was possible that was covering it? Whether that was the case or not, Harry hadn’t seen any numbers on anyone’s wrist but his own, and it hadn’t changed again since this morning. He glanced toward Ron’s exposed wrist before venturing the question.

“Ron, you grew up in the Wizarding World right? And you’re whole family is magical?”

“Yeah, mate. Why?”

Harry considered how best to ask this without sounding like a lunatic. “Well, something a bit strange happened. Um, I’ll show you--” Harry tugged down the sleeve of his robes and presented his bare wrist, hoping the slightly glowing numbers would speak for themselves.

Ron just looked confused. “Are you hurt?”

Huh? Couldn’t he see-- “No, the numbers on my wrist. I don’t know--”

“Oh!” Ron said with a squeak. He flushed scarlet and turned away, as embarrassed as if Harry had just started stripping in front of him. “Um, congratulations,” he managed, quietly, and still not meeting his eyes.

“What?”

Ron was beet red. “I know you were raised by Muggles, so you probably don’t know. But it’s not--well, it’s just, er--” Ron’s eyes are darting around wildly, as if desperate for someone to rescue him from this conversation. “It isn’t something people really talk about.”

Harry just stared. “You know what it is? What do they mean?”

Ron winced. “Didn’t the...um, other person tell you? Wait, don’t tell me who! You don’t ask something like that, sorry.” Ron continued rambling as Harry grew more and more bewildered. “Maybe you can ask Professor McGongagall, or I can find you a book about it, yeah?”

“About _what_?” Harry asks, nervous but increasingly frustrated. The curiosity of the sequence of numbers on his left wrist has stopped becoming a random oddity and was now taking on horrifying possibilities. What had Ron so harried looking? “I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t know what’s going on.”

“Your..._soulmate clock_,” Ron adds the words in a whisper, though no one is paying any attention to them, too engaged in their own conversations throughout the common room.

Harry wished he had something more intelligent to say than _what?_, but he was coming up short so he just stayed silent. Ron seemed to be doing his best to overcome his embarrassment as he realized Harry still had no clue what was going on. “Oh, come with me,” Ron said, resigned, and Harry followed him into the boy’s dormitory, blessedly empty save for the two of them.

“Okay, don’t tell me who it was, but you were looking at someone when the numbers first showed up, yeah?”

“No,” Harry said, still puzzled. “I didn’t notice them until after lights out last light, and everyone else had gone to bed.”

Ron furrowed his brow. “Didn’t you feel it? When it first happened?”

Harry thought back to the day before, but between all the excitement he hadn’t noticed any sort of odd sensation on his wrist. His scar had hurt for a bit, he remembered, but then it went away. Nothing on his arm that he could recall. “No, I didn’t notice.”

“The numbers show up when you first lock eyes with your soulmate.”

Harry started. Soulmate? He had met his soulmate yesterday and he didn’t even know it? But he’d met dozens of people yesterday and probably locked eyes with even more, between the train station, and then later the whole school! “A soulmate? Like, to marry?”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be. It’s not always romantic, it can just mean the person is going to be someone very important to you.” Ron’s embarrassment had seemed to lessen when he realized Harry wasn’t being deliberately impolite, just ignorant. “Sometimes people are already married when they meet them. Or there’s a big age difference, or the time’s real short or something.”

“But I don’t know who it is!”

“No one’s come up to tell you, yet? Usually people feel it as soon as it happens so they know right away.”

Harry shook his head.

“Well, it isn’t me,” Ron said with a slight laugh. “I can’t see it.”

Harry gestured to his wrist. “You can’t see them?”

“No, only you and the other person can see each others. They’re the same.”

“Oh.” Harry absentmindedly traced the numbers. “It says--”

“Don’t tell me!” Ron interrupted with a force that shocked Harry into silence. “It’s not something you tell anyone, really. It’s a bit morbid. It’s just between you and the other, so you can make plans I guess.”

“Make plans?”

“Well, it’s a countdown, right? Years, months, days. It’s how long you have until you--” Ron cuts himself off, but looks sad now, instead of embarrassed. “Lose them,” he finally adds in a quiet tone.

“Lose them? Like it’s how long the relationship lasts?” That seemed like an odd sort of determination. Although a magical soulmate clock on his wrist was already pushing against Harry’s boundaries of “odd”.

Ron looked at him strangely. “It’s counting down to when one of you is going to die.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Severus Snape did not have anything in the vicinity of “hope” or “excitement” when it came to his feelings towards starting a new school year and the dubious promise of a new crop of dunderheads to attempt to force potions knowledge into, but 1991 was apparently going to be a standout year.

Because although previous years had ranged from irritating to nearly unbearable, he’d never been handed a death sentence at the Welcome Feast before.

And that’s exactly what this is, he thought to himself, staring numbly at the amber numbers that marred his already ruined left forearm. Some sort of hilarious cosmic joke that not only marked the Potter brat as being his soulmate, _his soulmate_, but informed him that he had less than seven years to live, such incredibly unwelcome information wrapped up in the tidy, glowing marks on his wrist.

He’d waited thirty-one years to feel the warm electric pulse on his arm proving he had a soulmate in the world, and look how it had all paid off for him. Well of course it did, he chided himself, since when do I expect anything _good_ to happen to me?

In the first several days of the rest of his short life, he had briefly considered that it was Potter who was going to die, and not him, but that was rather quickly dismissed. He had vowed to protect Lily’s son, and he still intended to-- the fact that he quite hated him notwithstanding. And this was proof more so than anything that Albus was right, and the Dark Lord was going to return. Severus didn’t think it was likely that continued survival was in the cards for him if that were the case.

Although, after that first Potions class with the arrogant dunderhead, Severus idly wondered how quickly the clock on his wrist would change if Severus just gave in and murdered the brat himself. While he certainly didn’t expect any sort of overtures from the eleven year old, a bit of respect towards one's soulmate was not an unreasonable demand, was it? 

The brat must know that no one else could see the clock but the two of them, and yet he seemed determined to show off his bare wrist at every turn, as if hoping someone else would notice it and join in on the taunt towards their nasty Potions professor. Potter had the sleeves of his robes perpetually pushed a few inches back, and had even leaned his head against his arm, flashing the ominous numbers towards Severus’ direction the entire class in what was certainly some bizarre attempt at a power play. Children were little monsters, he’d come to appreciate in his years as a teacher, and they all considered themselves immortal, but it still struck him as rather shockingly cruel that Potter chose to taunt him in this manner. For all James’ sins, he’d at least never taken to broadcasting the date of Severus’ death to his face.

Worse still, Potter didn’t even have the decency to look smug about it, lording over that he was in on the joke. He reacted as genuinely surprised whenever Severus retaliated with taking house points or hurling abuse at him and his miscreant friends.

Severus didn’t know how he was supposed to last the next nearly seven years. As the Gryffindor and Slytherin first years scurried out of his class as soon as they were dismissed, Potter and his friends chattering well within his earshot about how _unfair_ he was he closed his eyes and sighed heavily, the glow of 06:07:26 beating in the pace of his pulse behind his lids.

~~~~~~~~~

Several weeks had passed since the numbers first appeared and Harry was no closer to figuring out who his soulmate was. Since Ron had informed him only the other party would be able to see the clock on his wrist, he’d taken to deliberately rolling down the edge of the left sleeve of his robe, hoping that someone else was apparently just as clueless as him and just hadn’t noticed the numbers forming and didn’t know what they meant. He’d narrowed down most of the occupants of Gryffindor house and much of the rest of his year, though it was getting difficult to subtly sneak glances at other people’s inner wrists. 

There was also the awkward matter of figuring out whether it was him or his soulmate that had less than seven years to live. Although initially distraught by that detail, further research on the subject informed him that this was typically only the case when one party was significantly older than the other, and this often led to a sort of mentor relationship. Some wizards theorized that soulmates with a significant age gap were souls that had bonded in previous lives. One famous case was Elianna Cobblepot, who at the age of one hundred thirty four met the third soulmate of her life on her deathbed. Jenny Brewster, age eight, was visiting a friend in the hospital room next door and locked eyes across the corridor. Both wrists lit up and showed six hours. This was apparently exactly enough time for Ms. Cobblepot to sign paperwork to bequeath all her worldly possessions to the girl, much to the irritation of her two sons. 

Harry read further on the case, and was relieved to learn that Jenny was still alive today, and happily married. Whether her spouse was a soulmate or not he couldn’t discover, but he was pleased to know he still had a chance of happiness after the timer ran out, assuming he’d still be alive at the end of it. Apparently while one soulmate a lifetime was the norm, in odd situations like that there was usually another a bit later on. And people apparently had romantic partners without regard to waiting for a soulmate. While the situation wasn’t ideal, Harry decided he could probably live with that. 

His current working theory was that at some point at Kings Cross the morning of September 1st, he’d locked eyes with someone’s kindly grandparent and simply didn't notice. Hopefully they would meet each other again and be something like friends or family. Harry wasn’t hoping for the contents of anyone’s vault, but he was uncomfortable with the idea of meeting a soulmate his own age and having one of them die tragically young. 

He was settling in well to Hogwarts otherwise, and was making friends, enjoying his new classes, and even joined the Quidditch team as Seeker. His only major complaint was the fact that Professor Snape inexplicably hated him, and he could never figure out exactly what he was doing to raise the man’s ire, but it seemed like just looking at him was enough to set him off.

Which is why it came as no real surprise when he was informed by Hermionie that Snape had been the one jinxing his broom during the first Quidditch game. He laughed along with her about the quick thinking she showed, setting his robes aflame to break his concentration. They were still chuckling to themselves as they passed by him, scowling, in the corridor, his now burnt outer robe apparently discarded in favor of the loose sleeved shirt that he’d worn below it.

What was surprising, in fact so very surprising that when he first noticed it he stopped in his tracks, unable to breathe or speak or do anything but stare blankly, was the soft amber glow peeking out under the edge of the shirt on his left wrist. He couldn’t read them in their entirety, but Harry was suddenly, terribly certain that they read exactly the same as the ones on his. _06:06:27_

~~~~~~~~

Harry Potter had all the tact of a bull in a china shop, but at least he waited until the rest of the class had departed before approaching Severus' desk and holding out his wrist like a warrant. 

"It's you, isn't it?" He asked without preamble.

Severus just glowered at him. Gearing up to unleash a litany of insults, he instead peeled back an inch of his sleeve to confirm. 

"Why didn't you say anything?" Potter asked in a small voice. He almost seemed disappointed, thought Severus, bizarrely.

"How did you not _know_?" Severus asked, before he could think of a more scathing way to phrase it.

Potter just shook his head and blinked owlishly. "I didn't know what they were, and didn't notice when it happened. I had to have someone explain it to me. So, er, I guess you and I are--"

"You and I are not anything at all." Severus said, his voice low and dangerous. He paused, curious now. "You were informed of what the numbers mean?"

Potter's expression was unreadable. "Yes," he said quietly.

"Then I'm sure you can guess why I'm not overly enthused about the situation."

"Oh. Right. I guess we don't have much...I don't know what to think, that I might only have a few years--"

"You have all the time in the world, I'm sure, Potter," Severus said, frustrated with not only this conversation but the reminder of his bleak and short future. "I'm the one it's counting down to."

"Why are you so sure it isn't me?" Harry searched Severus face with a critical eye that Severus didn't care for at all. He scowled, which probably only made the shadows under his eyes and his drawn face look worse than normal. "Are you...ill, or something?"

"It's me." Severus said through gritted teeth. "Not to worry, after you graduate you will be free to do whatever you like, and I won't be around to make any demands of you. Not that I would wish to anyway."

"I'm sorry, Sir. About…" he trailed off, staring at his own wrist with an expression a kinder man might have interpreted as genuine remorse. But Severus was not a kind man. 

"I have other things to do today, Potter, and if you remain here causing trouble any longer you'll be getting detention with Mr. Filch."

That bratty expression was back on the boy's face. "I'd just hoped we could be...I don't know, friends or something. Are soulmates supposed to care about each other? I read--"

"As fascinated as I am that you are, in fact, able to read," Severus said smoothly, interrupting the boys request, "let me get this through your thick skull. I'm not interested in anything at all with you, least of all friends." 

Potter began to open his mouth, but before Severus could allow an argument, or allow himself to give an inch, he delivered a fatal blow to any hope of good relations.

"I don't have enough time left to be wasting it on you."

Potter swiftly turned and left the room, but not before Severus caught the crumpled expression on his face.

~~~~~~~~

Things don’t change at all, really, the next couple of years. The timer counts down, one day at a time, and it is not spoken of again. Harry has taken to wearing a leather band around his wrist, a fashion statement a few may recognize as a sign of being marked with a timer, but no one will comment on. It's impolite to bring something like that up, especially with the looming sense of inevitable death it implies.

Covering the timer from yourself is a common thing, and Severus can't honestly blame the boy. He wears his own long, tight sleeves halfway up his hand, and he's avoided looking at his own left forearm for years now. What's a few more inches of skin ruined with an unwanted mark at this point, anyway? 

Harry makes no further attempts at friendship but also becomes no more respectful of him as a teacher. Every so often Severus catches a seething glare beneath wild, black fringe. The spoiled little boy thinks he's been cheated out of something, as if Severus has some grand prize he's withholding. 

Soulmates are typically romantic, but rather often they become platonic relationships. In such case a close friendship usually develops, or at the very least a mentoring one. It's quite common in such a case to make provisions for the soulmate, be it an inheritance or contacts with coveted apprenticeships in their chosen field. 

Severus had once held fanciful and romantic notions as a child, but as the years went on and his wrist stayed bare, he simply assumed he just wasn't going to have one at all. 

Supposedly, the dreaded knowledge of one of the pair's future demise is made up for by the gift of time with someone who has the capacity to understand you completely, and is predisposed to care for you in a way unlike anyone else.

For Severus, it just makes him hate the boy more. Potter faces off against trolls and smuggles out dragons. Defeats a basilisk and then comes face to face with a werewolf and still manages to come out unscathed. Every arrogant move, every death defying stunt, makes Severus more and more certain he's the one with five years, then four, then three left. 

He doesn't care what Minerva or Albus or anyone else says about how kind and clever and engaging the child is. He does not try to find any similarities in his features or temperament to his first and only friend. Severus hardens his heart, does his duty, protects Lily’s child, and keeps his wrist always out of his sight. 

~~~~~~~~

At the end of Harry's fourth year, everything changes. 

He had finally made his peace with the fact that his soulmate apparently wanted nothing to do with him whatsoever sometime around the beginning of third year. The only thing that eased his mind at all was that in a few short years the miserable, nasty wanker wasn't going to be around to ruin anyone's life anymore. 

He had been more than willing to give the greasy git a chance, to try to be friends at least, even if there wasn't going to be a chance of anything more one day when he was grown up. But no, apparently Snape didn't think he had enough time to _waste_ on someone like him. Harry knew he wasn't worth all that much, but that had really hurt. 

So who cares if Snape was happy making everyone else as miserable as he was. He'd give as good as he got in class, sneak around with the Marauder's Map and know exactly when to avoid the git when he wasn't in the mood to get another detention for arguing with him. He was lucky, Harry thought to himself, that the soulmate business was happening while he was so young, and would be over before he even graduated. Then he could move on with his life and meet his _real_ soulmate, because obviously there was something wrong with Magic, pairing up him and Snape of all people.

Harry was very sure of his vision of the future until the date of the final task of the triwizard tournament, when the numbers on his left wrist read _02:10:08_.

Because then he's in an infirmary bed, being treated for the after effects of the cruciatus. He's still numb with the nightmare of a monster come to life in front of him, his voice hoarse from wailing over Cedric's lifeless body. 

Because that's when Dumbledore says to Professor Snape _if you are prepared_ after he reveals his Dark Mark to the room, and the way his eyes glitter strangely when he briefly locks eyes with Harry fills him with dread. And Harry understands, awfully, what he's been asked to do and why Snape had been so terribly certain all this time that the countdown clock applied to him.

As Harry sits in the infirmary, shell-shocked at the events of the past few hours, he thinks about the ruthless surety with which Voldermort intended to kill him. And for the first time in years he is very, very afraid that he might be the one with only two years, ten months, and eight days left. 

~~~~~~~~

Potter's fifth year is a difficult time for the boy.

Severus knows this, but he doesn't act on this knowledge. Doesn't offer himself as a shoulder to cry on, doesn't inquire about frequent late night wanderings and the deepening shadows under the boy's eyes beyond docking points and assigning detention. 

It's unfortunate, truly unfortunate that the boy is actually growing on him. He survived an encounter with the Dark Lord yet again, brought the Diggory boy's body back from the graveyard, and no one believes what he saw. He sees the Daily Prophet, rubbish that it is, hears the whispers in the halls about how _he's gone mad, he's a liar_ and he sees pieces of Harry fall away a little more every day. 

During the forced Occlumency lessons he see memories that don't quite line up with the version of the spoiled brat and the pampered childhood Severus has been telling himself was true since he first laid eyes on the boy. 

He sees bullies and fists and the inside of a dark cupboard and _loneliness_. Its enough to make a lesser man, or perhaps a better one, want to reevaluate their opinions, reach out. Actually spend his remaining time being a little more good, a little kinder to his _soulmate_.

Unfortunately, Harry is going to need to settle for _safety_. Severus is a powerful wizard, but kindness is not among his many skills. 

Severus spends months playing triple agent for the Headmaster and the Dark Lord, playing both sides and seeming to come up a bit too short each time. His only motivation is to keep Harry, to keep Lily's son safe, for as long as he can manage it, for the rest of his life. 

Which, at last count, was something like two years. 

He doesn't stop long to consider when _Potter_ became _Harry_ in his mind. No sense thinking too long about that. There's hardly enough time left. And if things keep going the way they are, they will become decidedly more unpleasant until his life is finally snuffed out.

Late one night, Severus finds Harry haunting the astronomy tower. Rather, he sees Harry's head, bent up and looking at the sky like it's the last time he'll see it, from the shoulders down is shrouded by an invisibility cloak.

"Out after curfew, Potter?" He asks. He's so tired of hating him, but he doesn't know how to stop. "Rules don't apply to you?"

Harry ignored the bait, apparently uninterested in playing the tired game. 

"Isn't it beautiful tonight?"

Severus has no idea what to say to that, so he settles for something obvious. "You should be in bed."

"Why?" Harry asks. "It's not like I'll sleep."

Severus doesn't like seeing the ordinarily firecracker of a boy so listless. "We can stop by and see Madame Pomfrey as I escort you back to your dorm." He said pointedly.

"Why don't you take me back to your room instead?"

_"What?"_, Severus asks, incredulous, too shocked to say anything else.

"All the books say it's best with your soulmate. Making love. I've never done it before and I'd like to try it before I die in a couple years." Harry's voice holds no emotion, as if he's suggested they discuss the weather instead of offering himself up to his teacher, twenty years his senior.

"You're obviously under a great deal of stress, so I'll ignore that ludicrous suggestion." Severus said, incredibly uncomfortable and attempting to gain control of the situation. "You haven't been sleeping and you don't know what your saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying. Don't you want to?"

"Potter, you are _fifteen_."

"What, old enough to be dying, but not old enough for that?" He's frantic now, and Severus is still just staring, struck dumb, mouth suddenly dry.

"Potter--", he manages, having no idea how he intends to complete that sentence.

"I just don't--" Harry suddenly looks wild, his voice breaking from the previous monotone and he sounds so _young_ and afraid Severus is shocked into silence. "I don't want to die. I don't want to die without knowing. I mean, I've never even kissed anyone." He glances at Severus' lips, and Severus forces himself not to react on any level to what he's implying.

"Go find some pretty witch from your fan club, Potter, I'm sure there's no shortage." 

"Why do you _hate me so much_?" Harry asks, his voice rising to a shout.

"I don't hate you," Severus says without thinking, and he realizes it's true. 

Harry stares for a moment, searching his face. He stands and takes a step closer. Severus holds his ground. Harry obviously doesn't know the dangers in cornering a wild animal, and Severus is rapidly losing the upper hand. 

Harry reaches both hands out to touch him, but Severus grabs his wrists and holds him back. 

"Potter," he says, the boys wrists clasped in his own hands and held away from Severus chest, the sharp knife of Severus' control the only thing holding either of them back. He needs to say it again, but now he's trying to say it as some sort of kindness, not the cruel way he'd flung it at him his first year. "There isn't enough time to waste it on me. Go back to your dorm, and find someone else to kiss."

Harry shoves him aside with unexpected force and stalks off into the night. 

Harry won't be getting a lover out of him, or a friend or a mentor or anything one would hope from a soulmate. Severus can get on his knees and offer _anything_, if he wanted to, he has done so before. But anything from him isn't worth all that much.

Whatever specific event this clock is counting down to, whatever final confrontation with the rising Dark Lord the chess pieces are currently being put into place for, Severus does not know.

What he does know, though, is that he has no intention of surviving it. If it comes down to him or Harry, Severus realizes then and there what he'd only considered in the abstract until now.

When the time comes, Severus is going to die for him. 

~~~~~~~~

During Harry's sixth year, Dumbledore's horrific request and worse revelations put things in a new perspective for Severus. 

_So when the time comes, the boy must die?_

Maybe it isn't him. Severus indulges for a moment in the fantasy of murdering Voldemort himself after he kills Harry. He'd be a hero. He could finally live with the adoration of the wizarding world, or more likely, enough tolerance and goodwill to just quietly disappear and finally find some peace. A beach, perhaps. Or a cottage in the forest. 

More likely, the Dark Lord would kill Harry in less than two years, rule the World and crucio Severus to death for some imagined slight in the weeks, months, or years following.

Severus desperately does not want Harry to die, but the revelation that he's the Dark Lord's living horcrux doesn't leave much room for argument. And since when does Severus ever get what he wants? 

He spends the year on half as much sleep as he ever had before (which wasn't all that much to begin with), and even less food. Capitulating to every whim of both his masters' increasingly awful demands, ignoring the suspicious glances from Harry, attempting all the while to keep Draco on his task well enough to keep the Dark Lord at bay but not so well the boy ends up destroying his soul.

No, that honor is reserved for Severus. 

Severus is not a man who hopes for much, but it isn't until the certainty it won't happen is apparent that he finds himself wishing Harry wasn't going to his grave hating Severus beyond all reason.

What else could he expect? The boy watched him murder his mentor right in front of him. Who could ever forgive him that? Severus knows he won't ever be able to forgive himself, Albus' machinations and chess pieces and _the greater good_ notwithstanding.

When Harry runs towards Severus after the fact, hurling curses and screaming _coward_, Severus finally snaps. 

He knows he looks demented, screaming back and full of rage, but hes met inch for inch with anger from the boy, the fire in Harry's eyes burning more brightly than the house behind them. 

Finally, out of breath and panting, he takes in the sight of Harry, disheveled and enraged and filled with so much obvious grief Severus thinks they might finally be in exactly the same amount of pain at the same time. Harry says, his voice a terrible, strained whisper, "I hate you. I'll hate you forever."

"I won't be around to hate soon," Severus replies. He looks pointedly at first his wrist and then Harry's, where he knows it reads _00:10:02_

"Not soon enough," Harry says, raw, and Severus can't help but agree.

~~~~~~~~

Harry had imagined the countdown clock on his wrist would be all zeros on the day of his (likely) death, but apparently he was getting an hourly countdown. 

Well, that was really just cruel.

Horcruxes hunted down, breaking into Gringotts, the camping trip from Hell, all of it was leading up to today. All the pieces were in motion, now just the unenjoyable rumination on whether he or Snape was going to die today. In a matter of hours. 

He wondered for the millionth time who it would be. As much as he hated Snape, and the reign of terror he'd allowed against his friends during his tenure as headmaster this past year, it was hard to actually _wish for his death_.

He wondered if they would see each other before it happened, or as it was happening. Or if the numbers would just blink out quietly and the other would simply _know_. 

Worst of all, he wondered if he would be the one to kill him.

At the Shrieking Shack, right about the time it was supposed to be, green eyes meet black ones for the final time, and Harry has more blood on his hands. The viscous red fluid seeps over his fingers where they spread over the gaping wound at the man's throat, and Harry collects the memories in a flask, unable to deny his soulmates final wishes. 

Snape was right, then, Harry thinks, he was the one to die. Harry is still numb from shock and horror as he carries the memories to the Pensieve in the headmaster's office. There's a kernel of hope, though, in the center of his chest that Harry might have much more life ahead of him than he'd thought. But that's over of course, as soon as he sees the memories. 

He lifts his head from the Pensieve, his thoughts still swirling with the images. Snape as a child, best friends with his Mum. The prophecy, the deal with Dumbledore on a windy hilltop, the horrible, sobbing agony from that Halloween night long ago. And Dumbledore's words bounce in his head, about Harry, a Horcrux, and Snape’s horrified tone, _when the time comes, the boy must die?_.

He glances at his wrist, for the last time that day. 

_1 hour_

Oh, Harry thinks, understanding. It's me.

He at least has the presence of mind to realize Snape isn't dead then, not yet. He calls for a house elf, gives them instructions, gives them a message for when he wakes up. It's the least he can do, after everything, to make sure someone goes back for him, since Harry knows now he will never be able to.

It's not enough, Harry thinks to himself, not nearly enough, as he walks into the Forbidden Forest and prepares to die. 

~~~~~~~~

The bright white walls of the Hogwarts infirmary are so blinding, Severus assumes for a moment he’s actually made it to some sort of afterlife. A good one, maybe, Severus thinks against all reason to believe the contrary. He wonders idly if Harry is here. Then a moment passes, he recognizes his surroundings, and remembers that he’s never going to see Harry again.

He glances to his wrist, the familiar action of those last few days, willing the numbers to change, to go up, to disappear entirely or belong to some other person. Instead he finds it blank. He’s mildly surprised by what he sees. Not six zeroes, as he had anticipated in the months leading up, when the clock held six spaces. Or a single zero, the open ring of defeat marking the final runout when the clock changed form to reflect those last dwindling hours. 

It shows simply a series of dashed lines, still faintly glowing, still that dull amber.

Curious, that this is what a reset looks like. In everything he read, it was supposed to fade away. Potentially replaced at some point by a new soulmate, if one was lucky. Severus is not lucky. He has no delusion they’ll be anyone else for him. He squandered the chance he had.

He’s so lost in his musing, staring at the new lines on his wrist, that it takes the occupant of the bed next to his clearing his throat expectantly three times before Severus is pulled out of his own thoughts and turns to the side, annoyed and with a sneer already poised on his face.

It drops instantly, of course, when he sees green eyes and a mess of black hair and an infuriating smile.

“You’re alive,” Severus says, dumbly.

“So are you,” Harry replies.

Severus hold up his wrist, exposing it to Harry, who mirrors his action. It’s the same. Six neat horizontal lines. 

“It isn’t supposed to look like this,” Severus says. He has no idea why what should be a joyful moment is cut through by his grumpy, petulant tone about magical inconsistencies. But Harry seems to understand him, and just keeps smiling with that foolish, lopsided grin.

“Maybe we confused it. We did die,” Harry said, running his hand through his unruly mop of hair. “Well. I did, for sure. You were close as could be.”

“You died,” Severus repeated, the question implied with an arch of his brow.

“I came back,” Harry said with a shrug, if that was the sort of thing that happened all the time. 

“You...came back,” Severus said, still not quite believing. “And our timers are blank. So what happens now?”

“Whatever we want, I suppose,” Harry says with a laugh. “I don’t think the soulmate bit expired or anything, so we can pick up where we left off with that.”

“With me dying?” Severus said with an amused expression, “or with you screaming curses at me? Those are the last two occasions of note.”

“Ah. Maybe we can just start fresh, then.” Harry stretches out his hand, wrist facing up, and clasps Severus in an awkward attempt at a handshake with two left hands. “I’m Harry Potter,” he says ruefully. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Charmed,” Severus says dryly. He considers their joined hands, the empty wrists, finally showing promise now, instead of endless disappointment. Maybe even something like hope. 

“But how much time do we have?” he asks, so unused to not knowing the answer to that question.

“Hopefully,” Harry says, smile tugging at his lips, “More than enough.”


End file.
